


quiero saber

by halflingmerry



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: (except for that Cas/Kaytu standalone comic sorry Duane Swierczynski), Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Other, Rebel Rising easter egg, canon POV: film and novelization, cw: depression, cw: dubcon, cw: self-harm, cw: suicidal ideation/attempts, droids rights, full biofic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halflingmerry/pseuds/halflingmerry
Summary: Full biofic for Cassian!Featured canon:1. Child (Carida: Jeron Andor)2. Soldier (Sullust: CIS/Separatists, Gen. Grievous)3. Recruit (Dantooine: Alliance view of Clone Wars, Davits Draven, Mon Mothma)4. Junior (Dantooine: Davits Draven)5. Operative (Yavin 4: Davits Draven, Fulcrum, Massassi Temple, Willix)6. Partner (Yavin 4, Jenoport, Sullust: Davits Draven, K-2SO,  X-Squadron, 2 unnamed cameos; Clone Wars legacy, UT-60D LMTR-20)7. Spy (Yavin 4, Five Points Station, Coruscant: Admiral Grendreef, Bail Organa, Joreth Sward, Jyn Erso, K-2SO, Loth-cats, Mon Mothma; Lothal Blockade)8. Remnant (Yavin 4, Fest: Fulcrum, Jeron Andor, Mon Mothma, Rodma Maddel)9. Captain ( [the movie] )





	1. Child

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for an RP then expanded—which is why this fic is less in depth with Kaytoo (as another played character) than it might have been if conceived on its own. But many thanks to those players for major input: our Jyn for initial inspiration and co-headcanon; our Dooku for mythology help; our Kay for co-headcanon and a cameo!

It's a white blocky room. No dangerous edges, everything rounded—like stormtrooper armor. That's not what Jerón Andor is enrolled to be. Is it? The child isn't sure. All the child knows is:

Engulfed in white, left alone.

 

\--

 

Sometimes, Jerón's there. He's hard to see. The memory's shadowed. Hard to tell what was there and what's made up, but it's not a bad theory: they resemble each other, in coloring, bone structure, features. The man's broader and taller than the child will become. The man hadn't spent formative years malnourished. It's more his rareness than his size that makes the child see him as a giant.

Too often he's there just in transit: picking the child up from the white room and depositing him to an off-white room. There, kind strangers—Academy childcare—would keep him fed and cleaned and held enough. It glanced off him like water. All he wanted was to see the mythic creature of 'father' again.

 

\--

 

The six year-old slipped from cover. He ran out onto the great sprawling steps of Carida Military Academy. In the midst of the riot, with a toy blaster, he put himself in front of Jeron's body and tried to defend it.

He was knocked over by larger bodies who didn't see him at all.

The blaster fell somewhere away. The child found his palms braced against Jeron's motionless chest.

Something blew up.

The child tried to shield the body with his own.

Then there were hands on him, pulling him up to his feet.

"He's gone," a voice told him. "Come on."

He struggled; lurched convulsively back toward Jeron.

The stranger wouldn't release his arm. She pulled him back by it against her.

"Leave it," she commanded. Her voice, amidst the rioting and horror, would be no more refused than a rock in a torrent. "Leave it. That's it. This way."

He took her hand.

They ran.

He doesn't remember looking back, but he must have. What he sees when he closes his eyes—sleeping—blinking—every time for the next days—weeks—maybe it never went away and he just stopped noticing—is Jeron's vast towering body now toylike in collapse  
the swirling skyscape of his face gone flat

 

\--

 

The child didn't know how he came to be sitting in a transport. He was staring directly into the sun when it crested the planet. The adult humanoid who'd saved him knelt in front of him and turned his face from the window.

She looked so different from everyone on Carida—even more than Jeron and the child had looked different. They'd been too brown. This woman was browner. Her eyes were a different shape. Her hair was as dark as the child's, but long-flowing and wild. She had scars around her eyes and mouth.

She looked at him, spoke to him, like he mattered. "Where should I take you?"

He answered promptly. "With you."

She shook her head. "No. The life you'd be in for—"

"Take me with you," he repeated, suddenly pleading.

"You have to have people somewhere," she snapped.

"No," he said.

Her scarred lips tightened. "That man you were trying to protect. That was your father?"

He wasn't sure if he nodded or not.

She regarded him with a deep frown.

After a moment, she sat on the seat beside him. She didn't put her arm around him. He had a sense he shouldn't sink against her. He sank back in the seat instead.

"Tell me everything," she said. "Everything about your life and your dad."

The child told her. It didn't take long.

She was silent for longer.

"There's no way to explain to you what your life will be if you come with me," she said at last. "There's no way to make it your choice."

He stared at her again. What choices did he have?

She tried one more time. "Your people aren't from Carida. You from the Yavin System?"

He didn't know where this answer came from. Maybe Jeron had actually told him things. Never about his mother—why she wasn't with them or who she even was; omissions so complete that as the child grew, he would wonder if Jeron had kidnapped him. But the name was there to come up from the deeps. "I'm from Fest."

The woman's face went utterly flat.

Almost like Jeron's.

The child was frightened.

At last, she heaved a deep, deep sigh.

"Okay," she said. "I'll take you with me."

She extended her hand. He took it. She moved it in the manner of a bargain.

It would be the most she'd touch or hold him except for next year. When she'd hold his hand and push back his sweat-drenched hair while, unanaesthetized, they dug shrapnel out of his seven year-old back.

"Cassian Jerón Andor," she said; "I'm Xol Khryw." She dropped his hand. "There. You know who to curse, later."


	2. Soldier

a Rodian, a Sullustan, and a Human  
children playing on a hillside  
except it isn't, they aren't, and they weren't

"You're dead," said Lyyxo soberly.

"Not," said Surat.

"Are."

"Don't wanna be."

"Nobody wants to be."

"Cas-si-aaaan," whined Surat, "am I dead?"

"I wasn't looking," said Cassian.

"I thought you had my back!"

"We all have to have our own backs," said Lyyxo. "Re-form."

it wasn't a hill, it was hardened volcanic runoff  
they weren't playing, they were drilling  
they weren't children, they were soldiers

 

\--

 

Sullust was a volcanic world. The landscape was extremely bleak. There might be a stark beauty about it… if one wasn't stuck with it. The rock they walked over followed the sweeping shapes of swells and streams, though all perfectly solid; some of it dull with ash, some of it glistening iridescent when the wind and sun cut through. Some scrubby plantlife poked up here and there. The horizon was mountainous; even where relatively flat there were canyons and foothills, and here and there actual liquid streams.

The temperature was disconcerting. The air above would be pleasantly cool, if ever clear; the ground below, not matching at all—sunbaked or warmed from below.

And there was always ash blowing in the air; light and ready to crumble into dust.

The civilian population lived underground. The SoroSuub corporation and Spacefarers Academy were subterranean too, with landing pads that opened to spit their inventions, exports, and training vehicles into space. The mining operations created in-between spaces: pits open to the sky. The melted-and-resolidified surface belonged to the local wildlife, and to Xol Khryw's people: Sullust Team Nebula of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

It was good Khryw had made Cassian him tell her everything on that flight out. Between assignments, she wasn't around much more than Jeron had been, but Cassian was busy now, too. He was in training or being treated for injuries from training. Unlike Jeron, Khryw made a point of spending time with Cassian. She took on some of his training herself—for all the conflicted feelings it must have given her, to have saved a child only to turn it into…

That was probably why she kept reminding him what he'd told her. _Your dad was Jerón Andor. He raised you on Carida Military Academy. His people were from Yavin. Your mother's people were on Fest._ Maybe Cassian had told her that and forgotten; maybe she'd pieced it together herself; maybe it was just a better story. 

Another insurgent of Yaval extraction confirmed Cassian's accent and helped him stay fluent in the language.

There wasn't anyone from Fest.

They taught Cassian to survive, to fight, to infiltrate the underground cities, to raid and attack the Corporation and Academy, to sabotage their supply lines to and from the Republic. They also taught him fight or escape the Republic death machines that periodically tried to wipe Nebula out so they'd stop doing those things.

The Team was his home, but the Confederacy meant little to Cassian. It didn't mean much to most of the others either. For all Sullust was strategically important for the Republic, it was still Outer Rim. Most insurgency cells barely talked to one another. They had even less of a relationship with their leaders.

Nor did they call _themselves_ "Nebula". That was their official designation, from the CIS. Between themselves, the various species of Sullustan wildlife, with whom they felt more kinship than the underground sentients, became demarkations of rank and incentive. When rallying, they were Rockrenders: the fire-colored cave dwelling reptiloids who literally ate metal. For approval, they were Ash Angels—scavenger birds, not too complimentary, but still mythic and at least they could fly. That was also an answer to the more condescending "Ash Rabbit", which seemed to be Cassian's personal, much loathed nickname, until learning that every child soldier was an Ash Rabbit. The name would only vanish when some fundamental shift made one stop being thought of as a child.

The first time Cassian took down a state-of-the-art Republic war machine—sneaking into it and depositing a handful of pebbles and grit into the right gears, making the machine break and freeze, and ultimately, with minimal help from the Rockrenders, self-destruct—he got his first Ash Angel.

He'd killed the operators, he knew abstractly. Many of the things he did resulted in deaths. It was different the first time he killed someone up close and by hand. For more than a day he sat silently, not speaking nor crying, even when Khryw was found to sit beside him.

That was when he graduated to Rockrender.

He was eight.

And Khryw reminded him. Over weapon assembly and maintenance, during stamina or survival work, on chore detail; even if it became an act of imagining rather than remembering, a story she told him rather than his own experience. She made sure he knew where he'd come from.

The one thing he could remember for himself. Jeron's remaining legacy:

Not everyone gets reassured or praised or loved for merely existing.

Cassian has to justify his being.

 

\--

 

Years blurred together. Landscapes blurred together. The Sullustan wastes, its cities, then other planets—all different but all unified by the heavy shadows of desperation and grim determination that came of being the Rim. The people started to blur too: CIS, the insurrectionist cell, other anarchic groups. He could plot the timeline of every one… and never bothered. It was all the same. Punctuated by moments of triumph and heartbreaks, but mostly felt… futile. Comrades and commanders changed and blurred. It didn't do to get too familiar. They were family. They were instantly kindred. They were all expendable. They would die for each other. They frequently did.

Cassian couldn't seem to. He kept outsmarting. Escaping. Winning. Bringing victories, as tiny and meaningless as they increasingly seemed, as the war kept not stopping.

Khryw successfully taught Cassian memory enhancement techniques. He mastered them better than she herself, or anyone else. He could be sent places where older or larger fighters would draw more attention, and return with less trouble and more details.

The intermittent, broken reports of the rest of the war were _not_ detailed. From the little they heard, from afar, the glorious Grievous gave them hope. Until his viciousness started to plant unwelcome seeds of discomfort. _Aren't we supposed to be_ better _than…?_

At a leader's death, _Nebula_ was renamed _Fissure._ Cassian wasn't sure why that would make a difference. Drastic overturn of resistance fighters was routine. It felt redundant by then anyway. They'd become a different unit to him when, a year earlier, Xol Khryw had stopped coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xol Khryw (pronounced ZAWL CREE-oh) was Mirialan; the scars around her eyes and mouth were from badly removing her tattoos.


	3. Recruit

"You're the one with perfect recall," said the Human with hair the color of an actual rockrender.

"No," said Cassian. "I don't. It's all tricks."

"Do they work?"

"Yes."

"Then you have perfect recall." Before Cassian could answer. "And you've halted their lines from a single strategic point without resources. Plus, rallied the surviving ground forces at the Battle—"

"How do you know any of this?" demanded Cassian. "Who are you?"

The older man was looking at him with enraging calm. "Davits Draven, head of Intelligence for the Alliance to Restore the Republic."

"Are you _kidding,"_ snarled Cassian, pushing violently back from the table. "Do you know why we were fighting?"

"Against what the Republic was becoming," said Draven. "It was a valiant effort. It failed. Now we have to fight against what it's become." Draven held out his hand. "Want to join?"

 

\--

 

As much as the facility on Dantooine could be said to have anyone's "office", Cassian had just burst into Draven's. Gasping for breath, eyes like blastercannons, looking for something to start swinging at.

Draven said, "Ah."

Though he'd taken personal charge of many aspects of Cassian's (re)training, he hadn't made himself involved in reeducation. (If it can be "re-" to introduce formal schooling he'd never had in the first place.) Possibly because— _"Historical Causality?"_

Cassian made a strangled sound.

"It was tempting to spare you," said Draven. "But impossible."

Cassian blacked out.

He didn't know how he wound up standing amid broken furniture and in Draven's headlock. "Attention," his C.O. barked.

Best as he could without breaking his own neck against Draven's forearm, Cassian snapped to.

This was before Jenoport. So he was blinded with tears.

He didn't see what Draven did after he let Cassian go. —From the headlock, not from the attention, so Cassian stood perfectly still. He felt Draven grab his hand and dab it with something that stung, then soothed; then wrapped it in a bandage. "Don't damage yourself," said Draven in a low voice. "At ease."

Cassian turned aside and swiped his unbound hand across his eyes.

Draven kept a hand on Cassian's shoulder to guide him to a chair. Didn't exactly push him into it, because Cassian offered no resistance. "Yes," said Draven. "The inescapable conclusion, on both sides, is that the Separatist movement backfired. Speeding if not directly facilitating the rise of the Empire."

Cassian doubled over. Didn't strike his head against Draven's desk—Draven had ordered him not to. But covered his face so his hands muffled the scream.

Draven quietly moved around the room to tidy up and close the door. He didn't make Cassian leave, or move, or try to talk, or anything else, when Cassian quieted. Draven just picked up his datapad and continued with his work.

It was unknown hours later when Draven finally stood and put his hand on Cassian's shoulder again. "Come with me for food."

Cassian shook his head.

"Then speak."

That one was an order.

Cassian's voice was raw. "If it's for nothing then how are we better? How can we claim to be serving life while dealing death? Isn't that just adding _more_ death? Adding to their work? Maybe it would be better to not fight back. Counter violence with inaction. Let history work itself out. Just let people live their lives."

Unhurriedly, Draven pulled Cassian and his chair, away from the desk. Draven sat across from him so closely their knees had to alternate.

"That's why Mon Mothma tries everything else first," said Draven. "But there comes a point where not fighting back results in death, too. When they're destroying lives and dealing death on the level they are, letting it happen is not its opposite. We can't stop the violence and death. We do terrible things. But if we don't do them, the Empire does them anyway, and benefits from them. If we can't stop the terrible things, we must at the very least turn them against the Empire. Shorten their reign. When you can save lives or spare pain right now, you do it. But when you can't, you try to save lives and spare pain _later._ That's why it's different. That's why we fight."

He grabbed Cassian's neck to make Cassian look at him.

"That's why it was right for you to fight," he said intently. "You couldn't control the outcome. But if there's even a chance you can undo the evil, you _try."_


	4. Junior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the teen angst segment, totally cliché

Cassian Andor graduated to field work. He was put with his first team to learn from older agents. All their codenames were colors so their unit was _Spectrum._ In between missions, they were in a bunker underground. Four agents. One year.

 

\--

 

Blue rolled her eyes, tossed down the cards, pushed herself back from the table.

"Black," she said over her shoulder. "With me."

Cassian stood from the corner where he'd been watching the sabacc hand. He knew why he'd been excluded. Understood what they were playing for.

Green tossed down his own cards, leaned over to pluck Red's out of her hands. "Gotta admit," he muttered. "too fitting for it to be black and blue."

Red watched Cassian take Blue's hand as she led him toward the curtain in the back. Red looked… angry. They'd all assumed it was jealousy, hoping she would win Cassian's initiation for herself. But at some point Cassian would revise, realize she'd been angry at herself. What she was abandoning him to.

Blue dropped Cassian's hand just inside the niche and the curtain closed. Not real privacy. Red and Green would hear everything. But that was how they'd been living for months now. This wasn't much different from carving out the illusion of privacy for solo ventures.

Apparently ignoring him, Blue walked right past Cassian again to sit on the edge of the cot.

He still hadn't made up his mind whether or not to fight this.

But all it took was her loosing her hair and unbuttoning her jacket and she'd already won.

She knew it. "Clothes off, Rabbit."

 

\--

 

They hadn't expected she'd then take him every night.

It was better being alone together than on their own.

Wasn't it?

When he saw what he'd never expected on one of his torturers', trainers', comrades', family's, faces: her silent tears. One time, she actually wanted to be held by him. One time, she held _him._

More mind-blowing than being inducted into the ranks of the sexually active was being asleep with someone. The level of trust that required… to be so vulnerable to the other person and so compromised to anything else.

As a final initiation, it did what none of the… (crueler? more violent or humiliating?) …indirect ones had achieved. It made Green and Red—Dorosz and Narede—stop trying to break him in.

Instead, they tried to warn him. _It isn't about you. She will never make it really about you. Don't lose sight. Don't make her your mission._

He'd understand later that they hadn't just been fulfilling tribal imperatives, toughening up the new recruit for possible death. They were trying to make him understand what this _life_ would be like. Perhaps make him run away while he had the chance.

But because some things can't be come back from, it also means they can't be explained in advance.

And what did any of them expect. Even without neurotransmitter release in depressing context becoming addictive, and the intimacy of falling asleep with someone being powerfully like love. He wasn't quite seventeen.

 

\--

 

"This was not the intel," rasped Dorosz.

Narede slapped her comm. "Blue! Where are you?"

"We're surrounded," Cassian hissed.

"It's like they were…"

Dorosz's voice died.

The three of them looked at each other.

Narede's head snapped to stare around then back at them. The dawning realization, utter horror, far too late, in her taut, bloodless face. Beside Cassian, Dorosz's muscles tense, and his heart seems to stop.

"No," Narede started.

Around them, the planet seemed to explode.

 

Cassian raised his head, blinded and deafened, trying to access all of his limbs. He seemed unhurt. …How was he unhurt? He forced his vision back by blinking and sheer will.

He was… in the open. No cover. He whirled to take stock.

Saw what was left of their previous position. What was left of Dorosz when he'd pushed Cassian clear of it.

Cassian's stomach crawls into his throat but there's no time for it.

There's no sign of Narede.

There are Imperial forces closing on his location. Cassian tenses to move and was greeted with the bark, "Hold or I fire!"

The source of that voice exploded. Cassian ducked instantly for the nearest wall.

Narede was behind another piece of ruin, her blaster still trained on the now-dead sniper. She meets Cassian's eyes across the no-man's land.

 _I don't know how many others there are,_ she mouthed. _Go. I'll cover you._

 _No,_ he voicelessly retorted. _Not leaving you._

Something passed over her face.

"Yes." He could see her throat vibrate, not just mouthing but saying it. "You are."

Into the path of the oncoming troops, she dove out of cover, firing into them.

Unable to do anything else, Cassian tore in the opposite direction.

 

He didn't make it far before his leg was shot out from under him and he was dragged back to the clearing. With Dorosz's limbless torso and Narede's scorched remains.

 _Maybe Blue got away_ he thought blankly. Surely the active they'd been sent to extract was already dead. But if Blue…

…was right there. Standing quite straight and unresisting, entirely in the open.

On the wrong side of the lines.

Cassian stared at her.

She looked emotionlessly back.

That face. Those eyes hollow and flat all at once. That dark hair of hers streaming like ribbons. Her physical beauty that had so grabbed his teenage idiocy by the balls, despite her own blunt attempts to get him to understand that that was meaningless, had no bearing, was no reflection of her in any relevant respect. Despite Dorosz's suggestion that if he was going to fixate on anyone who wasn't the obviously best choice of Dorosz himself, then Cassian might find a far more constructive partner in Narede. And Narede herself, in the end, fair and honest and good to him regardless of that icy sliver of injury in her eyes.

Dorosz dead behind him and Narede dead between them.

Blue said to the stormtroopers around them. "This wasn't the deal. Let him go."

_No. No._

"There is no deal," the officer answered. "The prisoner is dead. Your rescue team is dead. Leave now unless you want to join them."

Blue stood perfectly still. Only the breeze in her hair.

It felt like much longer than it possibly could have been.

Then she turned and her eyes met Cassian's.

Every time their eyes had met on opposite sides of the bomb- or storm-shaken bunker, and she'd raised a weary eyebrow and he'd gone to her and they'd done the only thing in their power to do, the only thing they could control, the only escape available; even when he'd come out of sleep to her using him for release until she came or she cried; even when the act wasn't out of boredom or desperation or sheer torturous need but she actually seemed to enjoy it and once she even praised that he seemed to be learning some things… …He could be in her and never be near her. Her eyes had always had a deadness in them.

She looks at him across the uncrossable span of no man's land and their siblings' bodies. And her eyes are finally open to him. Blue—Xilo—finally takes him into her.

What he sees makes him start up against his captors' hands.

Before he can blow her only chance, Xilo's hand moved against her thigh.

Her lips soundlessly formed the syllable, _Run._

 

Cassian hurled his captors from either side to in front of him, crashing them into each other. Pushing himself back from them, his makeshift barrier.

Before any of the other soldiers can shoot him,

Blue activated her detonator.

 

\--

 

 _Narede Fôa ("Red") - k.i.a._  
_Ystavi Dorosz ("Green") - k.i.a._  
_Xilo Kyrhoxis ("Blue") - k.i.a._  
_Cassian Andor ("Black") -_

 

Spectrum's sole survivor sat on a crate in the middle of Dantooine Base's cargo platform. Wrapped in a thermal sheet, burned and bloodied and broken-legged, but not moving toward med bay. Shaking as he rarely would again. Mile-long stare he would never _not_ have again.

He didn't know when Draven sat down beside him.

Both men looked straight ahead.

Draven finally forced himself to give Cassian the debriefing both knew they had to fulfill, and neither wanted to have at all.

"The operative Spectrum was sent to extract," said Draven—

 _or terminate_ had been the brief—

"—was someone who'd once been close to Kyrhoxis. She tried to bargain for their life."

Despite Blue herself, along with the others, having hammered into Cassian so often. _Do not deal with the Empire. They don't deal fairly with you._

"I'm certain it wasn't the deal nor her intent that the three of you be the price."

_But what did she expect what else could she possibly have given up for trade_

"Were they retrieved," said Cassian.

"Yes," said Draven.

What was left of them.

 

That was all. They both knew that the other one knew. That Draven was violating full disclosure procedure by not telling Cassian everything. Though Cassian wouldn't know until he found an insufficiently _don't-tell-Lieutenant-Andor_ -ordered droid what Draven was holding back. That enough of Blue had been left to analyze even after blowing herself up  
and blood chemistry was that she'd died pregnant.

 

\--

 

The suicide attempt didn't even get logged. Draven gave him a free one. Easily done since it was indistinguishable from the rest of his injuries.  
But it was why they gave him the STERC (stress-trauma electroreconditioning) procedure straight out of the bacta tank.

His blaster-shattered femur took less time to repair than the migraines took to pass.

He used the recuperation time, when he wasn't blinded by endocranial lightning or fractal vision, to fill out the padwork and log an elective medical request.

It came back from Draven: _denied._

 

\--

 

Overheard. Draven and Yavá-knew-who—with the diligence of one conscripted to be a sounding board.

"Haven't you been grooming him for Intelligence?"

"Yes."

"And you want to reassign him to Recruitment."

"Temporarily. Yes."

"You find him unfit for field work but want him to convince others to do it."

"That's not what recruitment is about. He'd be much better at it than those who think it is."

"He's too traumatized to find the cause—"

"His dedication to the cause is fine. It's other things I'm worried about. Recruitment's about helping people—giving them purpose, hope… skills to free and defend themselves. I think he'll exceed at it. And it might… help… both ways."

"What are the repercussions to you if you're wrong?"

"Don't really care. I'm the one who put him with those three. He'll do better by me than I did by him."

"Well, you know him best."

"…I hope so."


	5. Operative

Draven assigned Cassian as Fulcrum.

Cassian treated his recruits as Khryw had treated him. Rehabilitator, teacher, mentor; but just as she'd always been a Separatist first, he would always be Alliance first. Any closeness was only possible because it had a deadline. The moment they were ready, they'd get their orders and he'd never see them again. —The ones recruited to actually join. He also amassed informants, the spy network, and those he'd see repeatedly but would never be friends. Except for all the goodbyes—but that was the natural order of his world anyway—it was the work he'd like best of all he ever did.

Two things didn't change. He never intended to work in a team again.

And he was going to reapply for the surgery as soon as the requisite interval passed.

He ended up being able to do so earlier.

Draven was starting to ease Cassian back into fieldwork as an Acquisitions Agent. But he kept him as Fulcrum as well: taking advantage of the networking Cassian had done, and maintaining the trust he inspired, by making him Principle Collector.

One of his most successful recruits, establishing his reputation (and validating Draven), was the _Jelucan Source:_ a high profile sex worker whose clientele, naturally, included grounded Imperials who couldn't get enough of the sort of things they decried on duty. Cassian only knew him as "Farir" and he only knew Cassian as "Willix". They were more than friendly. Farir offered to train Cassian in turn, should the need ever arise.

Cassian's Alliance superiors didn't suggest it. His sources did.

In jest or in dead earnest. _I'll give you what_ you _want, if…_

Blue had tried to teach him. What it meant, and didn't mean. For people to like your body. Your face.

It became unignorable. This was a tool Cassian needed. It could open doors otherwise closed. It could get past other obstacles with greatest efficiency.

Finally, Draven gave the next order he didn't want to.

Cassian went to Farir for raven training.

And Cassian logged another elective request.

Draven didn't stop frowning and didn't speak. Didn't repeat what they'd said last time.

_(There are other precautions. Why are you insisting on the irrevocable one? / This can't be an unusual choice. / Of course not. If you were someone else I wouldn't hesitate to support it. / Excuse me… / I reject your motives. / You don't know my motives. / You don't want to have anything to lose in the future as well as the present. / …Doesn't that make me a better agent. / It can. It can also make you a shorter-lived, less driven one. …Listen to me. This is a decision well made when it serves your well-being. It should never be used as punishment. Even of yourself. / Is it for you to—this has no bearing on my work. / Right. 'Cause trying to give a better future to others could never be impacted by excising the possibility of one you most want for yourself. / …Sir. If you need me to do this work. Any of it, ever again. Or don't want me going to someone less reliable than Alliance MedTech. Approve it.)_

The request came back approved.

 

\--

 

Cassian was terrible at seduction. But the other people—various genders, allegiances, species—seemed to do most of the work for him. His genius ended up being just getting out of their way to let them do so. Make him whatever they wanted him to be and not contradict it. It was surprising that a fair amount of the work was just feigning… the kind of things war tended to take from all of them. Normalcy. Frivolity. Fun.  
It would have been great if he could've enjoyed it. And maybe he could have with just the activity. He could see how this could be a satisfying prosocial service. If everyone involved were actually in full and free agreement to the deal.

But the manipulation… the lies…

His marks were always enthusiastically willing. Of course they were. That was the only way it would work. Only _he_ knew he was violating them.

It was what made him finally request to get back into combat duty.

Yes, Blue had betrayed him. But he couldn't keep betraying himself or them like this.

 

\--

 

There was _one_ he'd enjoyed.

Statedly, his assignment was as bodyguard. Quickly obvious, it was also _entertainment._ Whatever they needed d'Djiera ulTersu for in the Varadan Incursion (that was on a need-to-know-basis; Cassian never did), it required him to keep her utterly radio silent and hidden on the lifeless moon of Ttaz for nine days.

Presumably it had something to do with her particular neurology. She had little short-term memory, no long-term, and possibly no empathy. She lived solely for herself, quite literally only in the present. She may have been the most at-peace person he'd ever met.

There were no hostiles to guard her against on Ttaz. His job was to keep her from letting herself starve or fail to notice any injury.

And have sandfights. And say the same things over and over again. And stay out of her way to watch her dance with the swirling cosmos. Or let her pull him into it for her own purposes when she felt like being stimulated in whatever way. Not a little (almost beyond his tolerance) sex under the stars.

If it had not had an exact deadline, he couldn't have stood it. If it had lasted any longer, they would haved killed each other, or gotten each other killed. Not least because, with anyone else around, d'Djiera's attention would never be singular. And in spite of himself, Cassian would end up wanting connection. Be unable to remember or believe that she was incapable of giving it. Would take it out on her that she couldn't. And even on a momentary basis, she would hate him for it.

But short-term—for exactly nine days—free of any society whatsoever, literally the only creatures on the world…?

It was freedom.

It was… transcendence.

At the end of it, he delivered her to Varadan. He heard the mission succeeded and d'Djiera was alive and well, but never learned more. He certainly never heard from her. She'd stopped remembering him before he flew away.

 

\--

 

The Dantooine base had to be abandoned.

Law of large numbers:  
New Base One was established on Yavin 4.

 

_Your dad from the Yavin system?_

 

\--

 

He regained full use of his hand when the meddroids were able to fix the nerve damage.

This time Draven couldn't keep the near-lethal overdose off Cassian's record. All he could do was have it redacted.

And nod when Cassian met his eyes from medbay and growled, _"Give me a mission."_

\--

Enter phase, finally, of being a full-fledged Intelligence agent. Acquisitions operative.

Which meant… everything. Anything that needed doing. Espionage. Sabotage. Strike tasks. Solo and in command.

Assassination.

 

Another endlessly cycling parade. Like his insurgency cellmates. Like his recruits. Like his contacts and/or honey traps. Adults _(only adults)_ of many genders and species and worlds and allegiances.

But these had smoking blaster holes where an eyeball should be.  
Caved in chests.  
Caved in skulls.  
Garrotte wounds.  
Stab wounds.  
Drowned colors.  
Electrocution.  
Some clearly done in unavoidable defense.  
Some in mortal combat.  
Some with coldblooded surgical precision.

…And some that he had simply  
(never simply)  
abandoned.

Let fall behind. Left behind.

Not tried to save.

 

Cassian would go from mission to mission without respite. He didn't even want to take showers any more. Any moment of inaction, any moment not actively serving an objective, was a moment that could allow introspection. He would not be alone in his own mind. Never bearing to sleep on a motionless planet unless he was in a loud noisy room full of life. Never even using a bunk alone on his ship but sleeping in his chair to a blinking autopilot, an unintelligibly chattering or static-screeching comm, and starlines of hyperspace going past.

The infinity of the cosmos kept getting smaller and colder and more strangling.

 

\--

 

The one place he could sit in silence  
_(irony of ironies)_

was on Yavin 4

climbing up the Massassi ziggurat  
the sun-warmed stone at his back  
his face in the breeze

What had possessed him the first time to climb this thing  
just needing  
something  
not anything he already knew  
a way out of everything else in his life

and unlike all the other ways he'd tried  
this one worked

Empire insubstantial above him  
Alliance rooted deep below  
watching the rippling ocean of the tree canopy

he'd found the sea above the forest

the swaying trees, the infinite green

real infinity looks flat  
it can't be held in the organic mind  
impose limits and you can perceive _vastness_  
feel of everything connecting him up without being about himself  
and he could simply stay there and be

until the sun went down, dissolving the protective shielding of blue sky  
and he climbed back down to avoid being lacerated by the stars.


	6. Partner

Cassian was trying to make his eyes focus on a datapad. He'd crashed onto Sevarcos II and spent a near-fatal week and a half getting back off it. Now in medbay, they'd given him palliatives and it was a toss-up between those and his still-STERC-ringing mind, why he couldn't.

Example B: he didn't notice the med unit's approach until it addressed him. "Lieutenant Commander Andor, are you fully conscious?"

"No," said Cassian sourly, thinking he had to get either promoted or demoted as soon as possible. "What is it?"

"If you're not—"

"I'm sufficiently conscious," Cassian corrected. It was hardly the droid's fault. "Do you need me for something?" Please Yavá. He hated enforced bedrest. Especially in a drug-altered state where he couldn't control where his mind wandered. There were chasms to fall up in.

"General Draven to see you," said the droid.

Cassian nodded and set aside the datapad. Good. …Possibly. If they wanted something tactical, maybe they'd even give him a stim. He'd put himself into a seated approximation of attention by the time Draven arrived.

"At ease," Draven greeted, turning Cassian's monitor readout to glance over his stats. "Everything seems to be going all right."

"Yes, sir," said Cassian, not 'at ease' by a long shot. "Could you make them stop giving me—?"

"If you're spending energy fighting pain, you're not using it to heal," interrupted Draven. "Do you want to get out of here at best speed?"

Cassian nodded. (While inwardly yelling, _Give me something to fight for kark's sake. You don't know what's in here with me. If you turn the walls to smoke it can just come out.)_

"Besides," said Draven, pushing the monitor back into place and pulling up a chair. He leaned back into it and propped his boots up on the bed. Cassian suppressed a smile. Unfair as it was, they both enjoyed making the med units twitch. As if a little local dirt stood a chance against the army of vaccinations and antibiotics in Cassian's system.

"Having you," continued Draven, "in this slightly suggestible state—"

Cassian snorted. "Try me."

"—is to my purpose," said Draven, ignoring him. "You can withstand interrogation and retain information under chemical influence. But non-treasonously talking your way around an order…"

Cassian had a bad feeling about this.

"This is the second time I've visited you in med bay like this," said Draven.

It had been more than twice. "Like what?"

"Unnecessarily," said Draven acidly.

Cassian's skin felt suddenly too tight on his face. _You wouldn't._

Draven could read expressions and run through the abductive line as well as Cassian. He raised an eyebrow. _Stop forgetting who I am. The one who taught you to resist chemical compromise. The one who kept your self-harming off the record. Not to mention. Of course I bloody know what's in there, Ash-whatever_

So, no, Draven wouldn't. Not even between themselves.

Instead:

"Twice, now," said Draven flatly, "you've been taken out of commission because of _lack of backup."_

All right, not calling this an indirect suicide attempt. Worse.

Draven used his foot to nudge—all-but kick—him. It was well-placed not to hurt, but it was suitably shocking. Cassian leveled his gaze again.

"With significant physical complications," said Draven, more grumpily still, "compounded by having to get yourself to an Alliance med facility utterly unassisted." Draven flicked a finger against the dripbag, currently maintaining a bacta-variant infusion to restore the muscle mass Cassian had lost through dehydration. Over the days it had taken Cassian to drag his concussed, broken-boned self from his crash site to a neutral spaceport. "Some missions aren't meant to be undertaken alone."

"A partner wouldn't have kept me from getting shot down."

"Could have improved the situation a number of ways."

"Or worsened it. Every added variable is exponential in difficulty to predict and control. For that variable to be another sentient—"

"Agent," snapped Draven, swinging his feet to the floor.

Cassian shut the hell up.

"Broken bones can heal if seen to quickly. Doing what you did, forcing continuous use without proper resetting, leads to this." Draven tugged aside the thermal cover to reveal the not-yet bacta-erased surgical scarring.

Cassian said nothing.

"No, you may not have died—this time—but you incurred more intensive care, more use of resources, and higher risk of permanent decommission. If that's what you truly want, _tell_ me and I will relieve you. But this is not the way."

…Cassian still said nothing.

Draven gave it a moment before grimacing conclusion. "This is not up for debate. You're out of the field until you've nominated a partner or agreed to have one assigned to you." Draven shook out the cover and draped it (gently, while still scowling) back over Cassian. "You have the remainder of your recuperation to think about it."

 

\--

 

Like thinking would be enough. Cassian dove into his datapad, the med units, and any visitors he could wrangle to get back on top of absolutely everything that was happening. Anything that wasn't classified, a few things that were, things that would usually be outside his field or below his rank. He didn't know what he was looking for, but lacking inspiration, hoped he'd know it when he found it.

He did.

A recent mission had had a bonus result: the capture and neutralization an Imperial KX security droid. The unit now sat deactivated in lockdown. Cassian requested custody. Without waiting for it to be approved, he started messaging all his slicer contacts. For the remainder of his bed rest, he learned every counterregulation trick on positronic reformatting.

He'd have to prove it worked. That the reactivated unit—who'd reported under influence of a restraining bolt, after trying initially to kill Cassian, that his designation was K-2SO—was truly Alliance-loyal. …Or, actually, his slicers informed him, that was too abstract and difficult—the unit hadn't even been loyal to the Empire in concept or ideology, just in tasks. Much simpler and more elegant to make him specifically loyal to Cassian. Cassian could then transfer and extend that loyalty to Cassian's allies by instruction rather than by programming.

He proved it, under the furiously attentive eyes of Draven and against every med unit's protests, by having K-2SO complete Cassian's own physical therapy.

"But we are specifically designed to not further injure you!" the med units had insisted in horror. "A KX unit will have to work _extremely_ carefully _not_ to!"

 _"Exactly,"_ Cassian had snapped. He shouldn't take it out on them, but… so much resistance and bewilderment to what Cassian had thought a very simple premise. _Choice versus design._ What could be more convincing: giving Kaytoo every chance to hurt Cassian, as he'd been originally built to do, and show how he _wouldn't?_

In fact, Cassian was getting increasingly angry at attitudes toward droids overall. He'd never given much thought to mech-org dynamics—nor, now to his shame, droids at all—before. For all they'd supposedly been the CIS's main asset, droids had been entirely removed from his personal experience of that war. Now, Cassian was suddenly ramming right up against this _fissure_ in Alliance ideology. The kind of conceptual inflexibility he expected of Imperials and sheltered Core elite, not his own Allies. The kind of biases they ascribed only to the Empire and thought they soundly rejected in themselves. —And they did, on other divides: human/nonhuman, Core/Rim, legal/extra-. But when he tried to give voice to what seemed like this glaring inconsistency, the uncomfortable-to-irate responses would usually boil down to, _That's not the battle at hand._

But Cassian had influence, Draven moreso.

And it worked.

The delicacy and care Kay showed, his decline to take advantage of Cassian's complete vulnerability, and Cassian's success at regaining full mobility accomplished everything they needed to. No matter the look Draven had given him on approving the partnership. Grudgingly, affectionately exasperated; some respect; totally resigned. _You Gamorrean cranium. You wormed out of living companionship after all._

 

\--

 

Nobody had been happy—some were _furious_ —about Cassian claiming Kaytoo as a "partner".

Awkward enough Cassian's attitude now verging on Droid Rights rhetoric. Disconcerting enough the liberties Andor allowed his droid (not that he'd call him "his") to take.

But a _killdroid._ With the Clone Wars still in living memory.

If Cassian's Separatist background had been more widely known…

Draven's support and Cassian's will made them take it… as did Cassian's one accession: he never pushed them all over the edge by allowing Kay to be armed.

 

Although. All that righteous anger… when…

 

 _When you get rid of the Imperial obedience protocols,_ the slicer'd said, _you have to replace them with something. There're two main options. New obedience protocols of your own design, or unrestricted learning algorithms. What we call 'jailbreak'._

 _The catch with that,_ another interrupted, _is that you essentially get an infant who can kill you with a touch. You want a safeguard to make sure it pursues the learning curve at all—bothers considering what you have to say before arriving at its own decisions._

 _So what's the alternative safeguard to obedience?_ Cassian had asked.

They answered at once: _Loyalty._

It was easy. It was obvious. The Rebellion didn't enslave. Recruitment was about providing choice. Cassian didn't want to be obeyed for obedience's sake; he wanted to be cooperated with when he was right and corrected when he wasn't. It seemed so righteous and straightforward. Of course. Jailbreak. Loyalty.

It wasn't until the first time Kaytoo's photoreceptors blinked on and he didn't immediately try to kill Cassian, and the droid's voice hadn't been the bark of a war machine but a brand new sentient personality, and they'd had a real conversation.

That full reality finally hit him. Just _what_ Cassian had _done._

"There's no way to explain to you what your life will be, with me," Cassian said to K-2. "There's no way to make it your choice."

Kay responded reassuringly (not), "I never had a choice before, anyway."

 

\--

 

To congratulate Cassian on his officially successful reprogram of Kaytoo, celebrate his full physical recovery, and welcome him back to field duty—and because it would have been necessary anyway—Cassian and Kay were presented with one of the Alliance's new gifts from Bail Organa. A UT-60D U-wing starfighter, designation LMTR-20.

X-squadron, pilots and astromechs alike, were still suggesting nicknames for it ("Lame Tuareg." "Trith Mallet." "Lummoxed Thranta." "Looming Trell." "Lost Meetle." "Loth-mother." _"Your_ mother!") as Cassian, rolling his eyes, cut the radio feed and they cleared atmo.

Kay had a list of destinations and the reassurance that this would be a bread-and-butter mission. Cross-referencing with Cassian's record, and the guess of an orange astromech who'd taken a liking to Kay—possibly to be ornery to all the others—was that this would be a Collector sweep, checking in with Cassian's informant network.

"First stop, Sullust," said Cassian. He was having Kay do most of the piloting—indicative of what this whole mission in part was going to be: Kay's field training. "I know I'm throwing you out of the nest to see if you can fly. It's for me to establish a baseline to figure out what to work on. Not how it'll always be. Okay?"

"Are we going here to see if I'm able to 'blend in'?"

"You won't; neither of us will. The main population live in subterranean cities. We'll be meeting with a nomadic group on the surface. They're expecting an inspection of their activities concerning the SoroSuub factory. They're former CIS—how much do you know about that?"

"Separatists." Cassian had started Kay's Intelligence training the same way Draven had started his—with research—so Kay easily rattled off historical detail until Cassian finally interrupted with a smile.

"Yeah. They don't identify as that anymore. Partly because of the Western Reaches Pacifications. Mostly because… …of how things turned out. They're not ready to throw in their lot with the Alliance… but they hate the Empire. So, lacking a cause like that, they keep doing what they did before: disrupt operations of the SoroSuub corporation, and the—now—Imperial mining projects. What you and I want to know is if they've gotten wind of any particular projects that might account for a recent spike in Imperial resource acquisition—perhaps in conjunction with any activity from SoroSuub, if they've been commissioned for it. We'll keep our cover story close to the truth. You're a former Imperial droid, I reprogrammed you, now we work together. We're interested in any stolen or scrapped SoroSuub materiel this group might be willing to sell, which we'll be selling on to the black market. I should play self-important and paranoid so you'll make the introductions, as my bodyguard who's making sure it's safe to negotiate. All right?"

It was all softer than Cassian would have gone on a Fulcrum recruit. But… Kay wasn't that. Because Cassian hadn't recruited him, he'd reprogrammed him. Because barring outliers, organics did often have a quicker and broader range of neuroplasticity than mechanics without further reformat. Because…

…Cassian wanted one person…

_What this life would be like._

Cassian chose the alias _J'din Aasch._

They were met by a Rodian and a Sullustan. Who put Kaytoo through the wringer. Kay did the best he could. He was obviously the worst liar. After Cassian finally stepped forward and interrupted, the Rodian let out an exasperated huff. "Finally, Rabbit. I was about to point my fingers and make 'pew pew' noises."

"Or were you just trying to torture the poor droid?" said the Sullustan. He looked at Kay with admiration. "Nice. I've never known a droid who knew how to distract with attitude before. Makes sense he'd do better with selective data than having to make spit up."

The Rodian snorted. _"Spit_ is right. 'Aasch'? Really?"

Kaytoo, obviously feeling betrayed in a way that would twist Cassian's stomach for weeks, said, "You know each other."

"We know each other," Cassian confirmed. "Kaytoo, Lyyxo, Surat."

"Ash Rabbit," said Lyyxo snidely, indicating Cassian to Kay. "Is that phase concluded?"

"Your part," said Cassian. "What _can_ we take off your hands before your inspector shows up?"

"Whatever you can pay for. Don't give me that look. Information is free because it's you. We're still not arming the Rebellion."

"What would it take for us to team up?"

Her voice would teach ice to deserts. "Knowing for sure that there being two sides at all isn't a fucking pageant."

The wind kicked up some ash.

Cassian's eyes were obsidian-hard as theirs. "I know. But at some point you have to believe someone."

"And I'm glad you believe in the Rebellion," said Surat. "I am. I'd even trust your judgment. But you can't bring us with you, Sand. We'll be your informants. That's it."

Cassian nodded like he hadn't expected anything different. Like they've had this conversation before. "We'll compare available credits to how damning the tech. Onto that bit about information being free."

Lyyxo shook her antennae. "No unusual output or activity from the factory. Transmissions as bored as always. Whatever the reason for acquisition spike, don't think it's being processed through SoroSuub."

"Though they're definitely going for broke with metal extraction," said Surat. "Mining operations are being revved to error."

"Wouldn't that be nice," said Cassian.

"Sing it," said Lyyxo. She regarded Kaytoo. "You two wanna refresh a bit before we conclude our transaction over dinner? Maybe, I dunno, _debrief?"_

Surat tilted his head almost accusingly at Cassian.

"Like you didn't do worse to me," said Cassian.

"That's not driving a cycle at all," said Surat.

Lyyxo's hiss and Cassian's face going (somehow more) blank.

"Sorry," said Surat. "I meant it. I admire that you're still fighting. It's just a karking 'nockdump blasterpfassk that the fight is still fragging on."

"Yeah," said Cassian; low, intense concurrence. "It is."

Lyxxo let the silence hang a moment before gesturing. "Debrief your poor droid, Andor. We'll get you fed and refueled and finish at sundown."

It was their first fight… but Kay forgave him. Or took pity on him. Cassian's debriefing was… Kay understood the logic—and what it cost his human.

And it was valuable. It taught Cassian more about Kay's strengths and weaknesses, to which his role in future missions could be catered. It taught Kaytoo a few things… but mainly—even though Cassian technically hadn't told Kay any misinformation at all—what it looked like when Cassian lied, and how marks would react if they found out.

Kay forgave him.

Where Cassian hadn't let himself slump against Khryw in the shuttle, he did slump against Kay. Who put an arm around him. At last they joined the others, and didn't leave each other's sides for the rest of the trip… or the rest of the mission.

 

\--

 

There's a memory Cassian doesn't remember.

It's shadowed. Like Jeron Andor's face.

All he can remember is sitting on a crate on the planet Jenoport. Staring down at the blaster in his hands. Tears on his face. The last he's been able to shed ever since.

Being found there by K-2SO. Who gently took away the blaster and all-but carried Cassian back to their ship. Pulled the pallet from Cassian's bunk to the deck. Laid him down on it. Headed fore to get them the hell offplanet.

One of the few times Cassian had closed his eyes and let himself fall. Knowing if he died right now, it would be all right: Kay would get what was needed back to the Alliance. Allowing someone else to carry the mission.

And once hyperspace, Kay came back to him, and offered to undergo a memory wipe if Cassian needed him to.

 _Don't damage yourself._ "No one is touching your memory," Cassian had whispered. "I need you the way you are."

Still, Cassian never remembered what he'd done on Jenoport and Kay never filled him in.

 

\--

 

Cassian was getting physically injured less frequently, with less severity.

Part of it was Cassian getting more expert at avoiding violence entirely. _Try everything else first._ When he couldn't, he'd retrained his reflexes to offer up less important parts of himself defensively. On Sullust, his right arm was always getting cut or fractured. Now, Cassian always automatically flung up his left.

Most of it, definitely, is having Kay. Not just as physical backup. 

Kay certainly did a fair share of shielding him, carrying him, cleaning his wounds. Cassian tried to keep such things to a minimum. Especially being carried. He resisted such self-infantilization—allowing himself to put in Kay in that position—except for dire moments. Once when he couldn't find a way around his cover partaking in intoxicants (which at all other times he hated). That time from Jenoport. Once when so very badly hurt.

And a few times when he'd let himself rest his forehead against Kay's casing to cool his head. And fell asleep there.

Those in Military in Intelligence who thought Kay was primarily strategic backup and co-pilot referred to Kay as "Andor's droid". Tech support and Med bay were starting to deliberately offset that by calling Cassian "Kaytoo's man". Those who understood—like Cassian to d'Djiera—that Kay, undesigned as he was for medical or caregiving service, was there also, on _and between_ missions, to keep Cassian alive. Kaytoo: who Cassian trusted alone in the universe to be utterly honest with him; not to see Cassian only as what he needed from him, or as anything but who he was; not to be hurt by Cassian's pain, whether or not Cassian's fears about himself ever proved true. He kept him from withdrawing so far. Kept the stranglehold of the infinite at bay.

It slowed the process. It didn't make Cassian immune to it.

When the missions started again, more slowly with Kay's presence but just as surely, to shadow/hollow/deaden Cassian's eyes. Draven came to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the main place where I can't help but still treat Kay as a Player Character and keep my writing for him to a minimum. (All his spoken lines here are by my friend.) Hope this doesn't obscure how much their relationship means to me.
> 
> "Jailbreak" and "Andor's droid/Kaytoo's man", I'm pretty sure I stole from other AO3 authors, but I read those fics so long before writing this, I can't remember anymore…? (I've definitely been influenced all over the place by Bright_Elen and Sharksdontsleep, but I'm failing to relocate those details.) If you know who I should credit, please tell me!  
> UPDATE: "Jailbreak" is indeed from Bright_Elen!
> 
> Surat's nickname for him is the kind that makes sense if you were there for the evolution: Cassian Andor -> Cassand -> Sand
> 
> We can assume "Lost Meetle" was shouted out by Shara Bey.


	7. Spy

Cassian wasn't nervous. 

Yes, it was a high profile assignment—full year undercover as aide to Imperial Admiral Uillt Grendreef. No, Cassian had never been embedded for that long with someone so high up before. Yes, there was a _lot_ of new training being saddled on him, and a bit of cosmetic surgery (straightening nose and teeth, removing certain scars)—to better fit in on Coruscant, where semi-retired Grendreef lived with his family. But, the job would be probably more padwork than anything. 

Cassian wasn't nervous—until Mon Mothma set a few final training sessions. With her. One-on-one.

Mon Mothma had always been good to Cassian. A myth, a giant, in her own right, mostly seen from afar; she would go out of her way when she could to tell Cassian herself when something he'd done had had positive repercussions for individuals. Let him know he was recognized and appreciated. To some extent, he couldn't believe it or let himself crave it. But… it meant she occupied an unprecedented place in his life.

That she was taking on some of his training…?

He'd been told to come in full Imperial uniform. So he entered the room at perfect regulation angles.

To see Mon Mothma not alone after all; but the nobleman from Alderaan, Bail Organa, also looking benignly over at him.

"Commander," Mon Mothma greeted. "You'll understand momentarily why there's a deficit of Alliance trainers in this last discipline. But I have a feeling it will be vital. Admiral Grendreef, and by extension Joreth Sward—" his incipient operational alias, "—occupy a particular station in Coruscant society. You will very probably be joining him to official functions. At which, you will be expected, like any Core citizens of rank, to know how to do this."

She held out her hand to Bail Organa.

They demonstrated Core Ballroom dancing.

She held out her hand to Cassian.

 

\--

 

Kaytoo would take their getaway shuttle straight to Coruscant and embed himself there independently. Cassian would go through Five Points Station to give Joreth Sward a data trail.

On his last day at Five Points, Cassian got his hair shorn to the scalp and made himself clean-shaven for the first time since Spectrum. Looking at himself in the mirror, it seemed like a really bad farce: how much younger he looked.

He was about to leave for the most high-profile assignment of his life. Already looking like his alias. He should not do anything to draw attention to himself.

…But he noticed her. It was the second time he'd seen her.

He'd never seen her face. Only her species, height, and clothes. But she hadn't changed any of those. And while he (by necessity) hadn't realized at the time, he'd been able to replay the mental record to identify her as the one person on this station who'd actually managed to pickpocket him. She'd only gotten his credits, nothing he'd have to track her down for. But he couldn't help keep an eye out for her ever since.

He wasn't her target now. She looked like she was hunting.

He was avoiding going to his cabin to sleep at all costs. Surely that was the reason. The only reason, why he followed her.

Why he was there at Moeseffa's cantina when she found her prey: a Caldanian and a Gigoran, either alone twice her height and more times her weight, and she full on attacked them.

It wasn't as hopeless as it should have been. Her skills were exceptional, and they kept underestimating her.

But there came a moment Cassian had seen before.

A Sullustan insurgent dropping his weapon and standing, eyes serenely closed, into the crossfire.  
One of his people on Chemvau, when Cassian made the mistake of looking back as he abandoned them, leaning relaxedly back onto a vibroblade.  
Xilo's eyes and shoulders going finally slack as she mouthed at him, _Run._

The woman just lost her will to fight.

She went down as her opponents pummelled her.

_Already look like Sward. Highest profile assignment of your life. Imperial-controlled station. Data trail. Do not draw attention to yourself._

For the first time in his life, for no reason he could explain, Cassian put the mission second.

He knocked out the Gigoran with his chair.  
Pulled his blaster on the Caldanian and ordered them away.  
Knelt by the broken Human.  
She did indeed want to die; she unresistingly let him pick her up and carry her away from there.  
She wouldn't let him take her to the med station. Nor would she tell him where she lived.  
He took her back to his cabin.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. That he gently wiped the blood off her face; so swollen and miscolored and split, he couldn't map her bone structure. Eyes puffed nearly closed and bloodshot where they showed, he couldn't see they were green. Reset her broken nose. Reset her jaw. Cleaned her knuckles. Bound her arm. Cleaned her knee. Applied disinfectant and numbing agent to every wound. Used a few bacta patches and thermal pads from his own emergency pac for her ribs. Held up the blankets for her to crawl painfully under, resigned or uncaring if she was about to feel him press himself against her as payment for his aid, or withdrawn so far inside herself she was barely aware of him at all.

He folded the sheets around her and turned away to finish packing for the morning. Folded himself last, down to a shadow, in his chair. Rising only to periodically reapply numbing agent and refresh her thermals. Otherwise unable to do more than watch her struggle with pain and exhaustion and whatever wracking despair had driven her to deliberately pick a fight in order to lose—for the rest of the night.

By the morning, she was finally sleeping comfortably.  
He transferred more credits to pay up the cabin for another day. Arranged for a meal to be delivered in a few hours.  
He left without waking her.  
Had a feeling if he did, he would never make it to Coruscant. His life wasn't his to give away like that.

Out of all the people he'd met and put out of mind, he'd never stopped wondering what happened to her. Though he won't make the connection and won't recognize her—hardened, straightened, face healed, eyes lasered, movement unstilted, no longer utterly twisted and shrunken and shackled from fresh grief—when he'll see her again.

 

\--

 

Mon Mothma had been right. His cover would have been blown at the first party. But it wasn't.

The job ended up being less about padwork and more about things like dancing. Socializing. Running interference for Grendreef's family. There was a surprising wealth of intel to gather from those things too.

Cassian danced with Grendreef's wife, Aune. In their home, he would bring her reports of her husband's whereabouts. She commented she saw more of Joreth than of Uillt. It didn't long before she decided to literalize it. At his hesitation, she informed him that if he did not fulfill this lapsed duty of her husband's, she would tell Grendreef he had. She didn't call him to her bed every night. But it was a staple of that year.

Cassian danced with Grendreef's four year old daughter, Linat, and six year old son, Dyv. He kept them occupied when they couldn't be allowed anywhere near home meetings. Ran interference when they shouldn't see something going on between Uillt and Aune. He was profoundly uncomfortable with children—but they latched onto him. Nanny droids were not enough. They sought him out. Maybe it was that he was truly good at many interesting things. (Some things they would beg him to show them or play at with them and he diverted or flatly refused. He would never ever play war games.) Maybe it was that he talked to them like they were adults. (It was how he'd been talked to as a child. He didn't know how children were "meant" to be talked to.) Maybe because he explained more to them than any adult ever had. Maybe because he had a different way of looking at things.

Maybe they reacted instinctively to the ache of what he would always consider just cost for just cause.

Whatever it was. They adored him.

 

\--

 

One evening they found his room as he lay on the bed going through reports. They cheered their discovery like he was a beast they'd been hunting for days. Responded to his protest that they shouldn't be there by coming all the way into the room and clambering onto the bed with him—clambering on _him,_ with sharp elbows and heels, until he relented and pretended to wrestle them.

Dyv fell asleep with his arm flopped onto Cassian's ribs, his feet on Cassian's shoulder, and his contented drool on the sheets. Linat put her little copper head against Cassian's obsidian one and tried to read aloud from the datapad he'd picked back up. (The moment the door had opened, he'd switched the display to a report he was _supposed_ to be looking at.) Amused by her attempts to wrap her mouth around the terms, he read it aloud to her, as her head began to loll like her brother's. Cassian finally stopped and demanded, "You can't understand any of this. Aren't you bored?"

Linat got up on all fours and crawled, unheeding of her palms and knees digging painfully into him, to curl up in the crook of his chest and arm. She mumbled back, "Your stupid accent makes it nice." and also fell fast asleep.

 

On Lothal, during the Blockade, Cassian had been intercepting the transmissions of a probe droid. To avoid getting shot by the thing, he'd had to stay so perfectly still, for so long, that several wild loth-cats—too small themselves to trigger the droid's targeting—had sauntered over, climbed onto him, and gone to sleep.

Lying very still on the bed with Linat and Dyv, Cassian shifted his hand, so careful not displace either of these little loth-cats; and used the datapad to message the caredroids.

Something made him look up. A surprise: Aune in the doorway, staring at them. The look on her face was nothing Cassian had seen before. So different from when she was normally with her children acting like they were pure cartwheeling headache. Also different from when she was blackmailing Cassian, even when she turned playful, wanting to give him pleasure without herself being touched; even when she seemed to relax into admiring him, and feel herself regarded as more than ornamental means to an end.

She'd never looked so nakedly… fearfully… in _need_ of any of them, as she did now.

Lasting even when her eyes flickered to meet Cassian's.

What he'd felt with these alien creatures—human children—actually liking him despite his complete lack of knowledge of what children were supposed to be and how to treat them. (He'd certainly never been one.) He saw for a moment in their mother's eyes.

 

\--

 

Periodically, Cassian would retreat to the hidden shuttle that was his and Kay's base. Kay would have gone crazy simply waiting there, but still was (wanted) to be on hand as surveillance and backup. So he'd been given his own cover and activities through the city. Even with the severe limits of staying inconspicuous as an unaccompanied droid, Cassian was powerfully glad that Kay was getting to have some experiences and life independent of Cassian.

Kay was still always there when Cassian needed him. Sitting in that tiny shuttle that used to be (…?) the boundary of their lives. Cassian letting the Imperial uniform hang off his body which felt downright skeletal inside it. Unable to cry anymore. But feeling his own lightyear-long stare and whispering, as he never would to any being in the universe but Kay, how lost he feels.

How much more lost than when committing the unspeakable

Living… a continuous… day-in, day-out… life

With an enemy he's growing to

…love

 

\--

 

One day it's over. Mission accomplished. Extract immediately.

And he goes.

No explanation. No goodbye.

Which he normally wouldn't want.

But the respect and consideration and reliance Grendreef showed him…  
The way jagged, brittle Aune had come at the last to look at him and smile…  
And above those, much, much above:

It was like an amputation to not say a word to Linat and Dyv.

He imagines how charismatic and funny Linat will grow up to be  
How clever and good-natured, Dyv  
and how innocently, obliviously, cruelly Imperial, both.

_The Rebels don't want to take anything from you. We don't want to destroy what you love about life. We want everyone to have those things, too._

He never told them and he never said goodbye.

 

\--

 

Cassian finished his debriefing and report on Yavin 4.

Then requested a STERC treatment. First time not mandated.

He needed to detach from this. Rewire around emotion. Or how could he go back.


	8. Remnant

Cassian was walking alone to mess. He'd given Kay something else to do than accompany him because just the act of walking felt like carrying something very heavy. Trying also to be himself (whoever that was) around someone who knew him (the droid he'd reprogrammed himself) was too much. But he kept up the habits, the patterns, the regs, until he'd finally get his answer. He'd keep up the games of compliance and cognition when he had to.

"Agent Andor?"

He looked up, scanning for source.

A Human with Draven-like coloring was navigating the currents of the hallway to reach him. "Do you remember me?"

"Are you _kidding._ Mad Rod." Cassian grasped her hand as she groaned at the old nickname.

Rodma Maddel. One of his Fulcrum recruits. Gone on to be a distinguished operative herself. She was… grinning at him. (How could she be…? She came through Fulcrum. It hadn't been a picnic.)

"Share a meal?" she asked. He agreed by falling in step with her, shoulder-to-shoulder.

They talked for a long time. It was more than Cassian had had an out-of-character, unulterior, objective-free conversation with anyone but Kay for… who counted time anymore. It felt…

Maybe it was because he'd gotten so used to being Joreth Sward. His isolation had been compromised. Maddel exploited the weakness respectfully, deftly, even kindly. But he noticed her microexpressions. The flickering of her eyes. Taking in _his_ microexpressions, other physiological tells.

When the summoning came, he knew it was because Maddel had gone to Draven.

But it wasn't Draven waiting when he entered the room.

 

\--

 

Mon Mothma, in white as always, greeted him with a grave smile. "Thank you for coming."

Cassian didn't have many spontaneous, uncrafted reactions left. Seeing her made him pause with his hand on the door panel.

"You wanted to see me," he said at last.

"Not for dance lessons, I'm afraid," she said. "Please close the door."

He entered and obeyed.

She gestured for him to sit, sitting, herself, opposite.

"Tell me about your mission," she said.

"I've submitted my report—"

"Yes, I've read it. Tell me more."

" 'More' ?"

"More."

Cassian, at a loss: "Commander… you can't possibly have the time—"

"That's not your call and it's an order."

Cassian opened his mouth. Fully intending to obey. But found it simply empty. He didn't know where to begin. He didn't know what she was asking.

She folded her hands on the table between them. Took pity on him. "Your mission was a success. In an assignment some argued would be a waste of your talents and time. But you were able to extract more intel than if you _had_ been given the access to Grendreef's datafiles that we'd hoped. Some of your work is already being put into effect. Why are you behaving as though you failed?"

Cassian sat back in his seat. "I don't know a straightforward answer, Commander. If this is because I've resisted psych assist, I'll do it to avoid wasting your—"

"You are not a waste of my time," said Mon Mothma.

"I can't possibly be the most important thing you have to attend to."

"Couldn't you. What is it you think we're fighting for?"

Cassian looked at her.

Mon Mothma examined his face. Then removed her hands from the table. "You wish me to speak plainly. Your petition was bumped from General Draven to me. I've reviewed your file. It scarcely added to the concerns I already had. You've already sterilized yourself in contradiction of your own psych selections. Now you request to lobotomize yourself."

His throat clenched in… protest… anger… embarrassment… "That's not what—"

She cut him off. "Electroreconditioning is a last resort."

"I've had it twice."

"We're unhappy if we have to submit our people to it once. The more repeated, the more risk of brain damage. You reprogrammed a droid. You've seen it in the mechanics we understand better than our own. Even in brains we ourselves constructed, we cannot wipe things out selectively. There's too much interconnection. There are always aftereffects which are hard to predict. Thoughts, feelings, experience, create physical pathways. The canyon isn't unmade by evaporating the river."

Cassian rested his elbow on the chair and his mouth against his knuckles to avoid responding.

Mon Mothma's eyes were steady on him. She repeated softly, "If that's truly all the universe has left to offer you, I will hold your hand while the procedure's performed, myself."

_Khryw: Smoothing back his sweat-soaked hair._

Mothma: "But I will exhaust every other possibility—"

_Draven: "That's why she tries everything else—"_

_"—first."_

Cassian lowered his hand.

Mothma's gaze remained level. "You have done exemplary work for us. We have not cared for you in kind."

"There are more important things," he said.

"No," she answered. "There aren't. Too often we deprioritize self-care for service. But we mustn't conflate _often_ with _should."_

This… was not a conversation he… had been… afforded before. (Could afford? Couldn't _not?)_ Less able to conjure responses than he's been for years, he says at last, "Why?"

She leaned forward. "Because you are not a stormtrooper. We did not grow you in a cylinder and arrest your development to keep you docile and mindless. We did not kidnap you in childhood to condition you to approximate effect."

…at that… breaking free of her gravity, Cassian couldn't stop himself lifting an eyebrow.

Mothma sat back, sadly conceding, "Not intentionally." Folded her hands again. "Another thing to be addressed. Tell me why you're behaving as though you failed."

Cassian's eyes slipped away from hers, looking for the answer all around the room. Avoiding where he knew it was. Finally, the strategic brain took over. Answered without him having to consciously decide. "Those kids."

"Dyv and Linat."

"Yes."

"They loved you."

He shivered like a rabbit shaking off ash. "What they're being taught. What they believe. …I never tried. To tell them otherwise."

She stated as fact, "If you had, they would have seen you executed."

"That could have worked. Couldn't it."

She waited.

"They'd have seen the face of it," he said. "That the universe is more complicated… they might have to question… they might eventually understand… be able to choose…"

She broke the following silence with an unexpected: "Tell me about Jenoport."

Once more. Cassian didn't want to disobey. But was incapable of obeying.

This time, Mon Mothma nodded. "Do you know why your failure to submit a report was not investigated?"

Easy answer. Political question. Making him say it though both already knew. "The psych eval."

"Yes. I know what happened on Jenoport, Andor. It doesn't matter if you were part of it or just witnessed it. Either way. It begins to form a pattern."

He refused to take the cue.

Unruffled, she moved on. "You are being maintained as Fulcrum agent despite having been moved also to other functions. Do you know why?"

Again, he has to weigh which of many facets she may be seeking. _Politicians…!_

 _Soldiers!_ "Speak freely."

Exasperated, "I was good at it."

"You were exceptional. Many of your trainees wound up at Base One. Some report to me directly."

Maddel.

"They are consistently among our best. And they worship you."

A muscle in Cassian's jaw goes slack. "…Why? How? I was cruel to them."

"Not a one has described you as cruel. I have their training introspectives and trainer evaluations right here." She produced and slid a datapad across the table to him. "Read them."

"I'd rather not."

Maddeningly sanguine, she repeated it as an order.

Like dragging himself across Sevarcos II, Cassian put out his hand and picked up the datapad.

He read.

 

He finally doubled over as if in pain and pushed the datapad away.

Mon Mothma took it.

 

…They all agreed with each another. All the reports. All the people. The consistencies in their descriptions suggested either conspiracy (if such a thing ever actually manifested so well) or objective reality.

But Cassian didn't recognize the person they described.

 

Mon Mothma at last continued.

"I am not an expert… in… anything, really. My work is not to identify objective truths. My work is to identify what enough people _believe_ to be true. Such beliefs as drive our choices, shape our perceptions, make us shape reality in turn. I need to understand these things so I can work with them toward what I hope might be higher truths."

"Is that your explanation for these reports," said Cassian in a voice hoarsened by constriction.

"No. It is to contextualize my unclinical but hopefully actionable theory. Please sit up, Cassian."

He sat up.

Mon Mothma's eyes were… hard to read. Not because they were shielded. The opposite. It was like trying to isolate a single radiation frequency, without equipment, in a sun.

"You were raised," she said, "by your father, on Carida. Yes?"

"Yes."

"From what age?"

"Infancy."

She shook her head. "I don't believe it. Don't mistake me. I give thanks to Xol Khryw for all she did." How Mon Mothma knows Khryw's name, let alone her actions… Cassian was past questioning it. "I am not suggesting that she lied to you. However, you were a traumatized child. I believe she did the best she could with subjective fragments. I'm sure being on Carida felt like all you'd ever known. But such level of neglect and deprivation... even if you had been able to physically survive it; if that was really your only formative experience or basis for comparison before the CIS… I wonder if you wouldn't have… normalized it more. Never hoped for more. Not demonstrated such apparently automatic capacity, even flair, for… well, the opposite. Connection. Trust. Affection. With those you've work with since. Why it worked when Draven intuited that that nature of recruitment, forging such connections even temporarily, might… restore you. I have a hard time believing that of someone who never experienced respect, trust, nurture, or love. That perhaps it would have had to be learned. Rather than seem to be… your default state, when not denied or deprived. …What do you think?"

Cassian instantly thought of counterexamples in both directions. Those who'd been raised worse and turned out better, those raised better and turned out worse. He wasn't sure what to say—or how to say it politically.

His expression or hesitation alone made Mon Mothma shrug—easy, unoffended, unconcerned.

(Not needing to be agreed with or obeyed for obedience's sake. Only to be cooperated with if she was—in pursuit of really being—right.)

She said, "My instinct may be worth something even if my rationalization for it is not. The point is, Andor, I think you were brought to Carida later than you suppose. Whatever came before that, you may not remember, but the pathways were there to be followed."

She stood. Cassian followed her at once.

"Here is your assignment. Just because it is of a personal nature, do not imagine that if you shirk or fail it, there won't be consequence. Am I clear?"

He crisply nodded.

"Good. Go to Fest. Research yourself. Report to me directly when you come back. I will then render judgment on your petition."

 

\--

 

Though it took the worst fight they'd had, Cassian managed to leave Kaytoo behind.

When Maddel approached Cassian on his way to the landing pad, he walked past her.

 

\--

 

Cassian stood on the edge of a massive crater.

He'd joked to someone once. About how so many planets' names, in their indiginous languages, meant 'dirt'. _Well, Fest means 'rock'. And deserves it._

How had he known that.

A sound behind him. Cassian spun, knowing he was too visible, silhouetted against the sky, his hand on his holstered blaster. From the base of the rise, a male Festrin Human was staring up at him.

The Festrin said in disbelief, "Jerón?"

 

Cassian felt bone-locked.

At last he answered, "…No."

The Festrin began slowly, tentatively, walking up the crater wall toward him.

Cassian didn't release the blaster. Neither did he draw it.

At last they were face to face, inspecting each other. The Festrin: Tall. Pink and brown-freckled skin. Dark auburn hair. Pale-colored eyes. Phototypical local.

Cassian: none of those things.

But in both of them: oddly familiar bone structure.

 

The Festrin grabbed Cassian in a hug.

Cassian was rigidly tense, not returning the hold… but his hand dropped away from his blaster.

The man murmured, "Cassian."

 

\--

 

Seidh had never expected Jerón to change his plans. His ambitions to become an officer. They hadn't meant to have children (or even discuss the nature of their relationship) until after he graduated Carida.

But when the choice was made for them, she was thrilled. They'd be waiting on Fest until he came back. —if he came back. If he didn't just choose to go on to Arkanis. Either way, it was all right. Seidh rejoiced in her son and the whole community welcomed and raised the child together.

Jeron came moments ahead of the attack. Unclear if he'd come to warn them, try and save more of them, or just extract then four year-old Cassian.

He wasn't early enough. The choice was made for him.

Cassian expelled what he'd seen. Imprinted himself only with Jeron. Why his accent was Yaval not Festrin and would stay so, through discontinuous influence, the rest of his life.

 

\--

 

Cassian clasped his hands behind his back. Mon Mothma looked up at him.

"I'm ready for my next assignment," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "No treatment required."

"No, ma'am."

She nodded. Called up his petition on her databad. Voided. Called up another. Approved.

"Your status is cleared for field duty," she said. "Report to General Draven for orders."

 

\--

 

Maddel was leaning against a wall, arms crossed over her chest.

Cassian crossed the rest of the way to her and leaned back beside her.

"What you would have done for anyone but yourself," she said.

"I know." He folded his arms to nudge their shoulders. "I agree."

She shrugged him off slightly, perhaps in discomfort at the familiarity—perhaps not enough. "Grab a meal?"

He shook his head. "Have to correct course. Won't be able to do what I have to. Keep serving."

"Might mean you've served enough."

He shook his head. For all that's changed... some things solidified.

"The war has to stop," he said. "The Empire has to stop."

She regarded him for several moments.

"I'm here one more night," she said.

She was a good agent. He couldn't tell which of three things she might be offering. If she was even interested in people on his part of the gender spectrum, or such things at all—or if, like him, (please no not her too) her own comfort or desire had never been allowed to be a consideration there. …Or if it was another conversation, another shared meal… Even just… walking. Even standing, like this, side-by-side.

The answer had to be the same.

He turned, hugged her, and walked away.


	9. Captain

"Captain Andor!"

Cassian looked up from dropping his duffle in the ship's hold. Past Erso, waiting to follow, now raising her eyebrow at him; Draven had crossed the landing platform. Cassian spared her a glance then left the ship to meet him out on the tarmac, where no one could hide behind anything to listen.

His C.O., former mentor, recruiter, converter, had his hands at his sides. Cassian's were clasped behind his back. Half a head taller, Draven bowed his head to make sure only Cassian heard him. And, perhaps, so that the back of Cassian's head would block Draven's lips moving from the vantage of the ship—from, potentially, Erso's eyes.

Draven said in a low voice, "Galen Erso is vital to the Empire's weapons program." Cassian's brief nod. Draven's grim look. "Forget what you heard in there. There will be no extraction. You find him…"

Clasping Tivik's shoulder, putting his body against the other man's to reassure him, the warmth, the intimacy, so gently touching moving his blaster behind Tivik's back to aim at his heart. _(Don't.)_

 _(I'm sorry.)_ "…you kill him."

Cassian looked away, mouth tightening.

Of course. Of course it wasn't enough to put him on a volatile mission to an active war zone, seeking an imbalanced warlord with a chip on his shoulder. (Or maybe just a chip. The shoulder might be gone by now.)

It wasn't enough to add the unwelcome x-factor of another sentient.

It wasn't enough that that sentient was as undisciplined, anarchic, convictionless, unpredictable, provocative, and aggravating—yet tapping something in Cassian's chest that made it fall and gape and be irritated all the more—as Jyn Erso.

_Who, when he'd seen her as Kay brought her in… as Cassian stood watching at Draven's side, feeling a bit disconcerted that his comprehensive set of expectations based on her file—his profiling was usually very accurate—felt, now that he was looking at her, somehow off. So much physically smaller than her record would lead to assume, the set of her jaw and shoulders and chin, shoulders hunched against the world permanently ready knowing it was only a matter of time before it took another swing at her, fresh off an Imperial labor camp and yet… What he hadn't anticipated, or had but never imagined would surprise him, (Why would anything?) The fire in her eyes. The radiation of her… sense of…_ need. _The cosmos itself seemed to bend in on, around, her. Cassian felt something pass through his whole body. He wanted suddenly to turn to Draven and say / **No.** Not her. Don't assign me to her. Put me somewhere else. Put me on a different path./_

On top of all that… he would have to travel with her closely, into that morasse, keep her safe, keep her trust, and try to keep everything at some impossible equilibrium, while having to conceal from her the exact thing that most betrayed her, and would provoke the least predictable of reactions.

_(Any more explosives you want to add to that pile, Sir?)_

Draven offered nothing—though Cassian's glance down would read between the two of them as clearly as a grimace. He only added, flatly, "Then and there."

Turn rebellion to resignation. Done. Cassian lifted his eyes back to Draven's. Didn't speak—no argument, no goodbye. Definitely no verbal confirmation for classified directives. Only a crisp nod. Then turned on his heel and strode back to the ship. Where he would proceed to speak with Erso as if nothing had changed. As if their purpose was still synchronized.

…and instantly compromised regulation, precedent, and his mission (for the first time, as far as he knows) to let her keep the blaster she'd stolen from his own pack.

 

\--

 

 _"Anyone who kills me or my friends will answer to Saw Gerrera!"_  
_For everything else running through his head at this 'nockdump of a situation, Cassian was surprised to find a few personal feelings making room in there, too._  
_… pride? to be at the side of this woman who'd shout her deepest pain in an adversary's face when it was the right move_  
_…conflict about being so easily (undeservedly?) included in that uncustomary categorization:_ friends  
_…wryness that not ten minutes (and a battle) ago, he'd literally told her, "We're not here to make friends"_

Jedha. Eadu. Hyperspace.

Three times Cassian betrayed his entire training, regulations, precedent, and beliefs; endangering the all-important mission, after she'd already fulfilled her part in it, even become a liability to it. To keep Jyn Erso alive and beside him.

Despite screaming at himself not to and being unable to explain to himself or anyone else why.

He just needed to keep her alive. And with him.

 

\--

 

"Some of us just decided to do something about it."

Her mouth twisted. She was shaking her head. Cassian was too upset to get an accurate read; but it was hard not to think that perhaps she was fighting off… understanding. That if she could afford (could bear) to see him as anything but an enemy right now, they might instead—

 _No._ He felt a muscle in his face jump. Perhaps in a similar look of rejection, revulsion, _rebellion_ as had just crossed hers— _Not the same. We are_ not _the same._

"You can't talk your away around this," she said, voice low.

He didn't like weaponizing body language. Not needlessly. Not so intimately. It was on a curve with the one thing he'd managed never—amid all the things he'd swore he wouldn't but had done—to do.

But he kept breaking all the rules with Jyn, didn't he?

He put his body practically against hers to circle them around

_—as they had on Jedha—  
—'Rebellions are built on hope'—_

and let every fissure behind his glare show on through. The only way to meet the exact consistency of hers. As low-voiced as she, he growled back, "I don't have to."

He only broke her furious gaze to go to the ladder.

Paused. Looked back, leveled his own eyes at each of the others. Bodhi, staying determinedly useful at the console. Chirrut, impossible to read. Baze, openly glowering back. Cassian all-but shouted, "Anyone else?"

Bodhi either shook his head or just plain shook. Chirrut gave no sign. Baze exhaled a grunt and lay back like he was on a beach. Cassian didn't realize his eyes were going back to Jyn until it was too late and they locked again. He turned away and yanked himself up the ladder. To the cockpit, to Kaytoo, to sanctuary.

Except Cassian immediately slammed both fists—painfully, silently—into the bulkhead, and struck his forehead between them.

He felt Kay's oculars on him, but the droid was silent.

Cassian would never be immune to the psychology of his work. The addition of Kaytoo slowed the process. A lot of it was being able to come back from something terrible and have companionship. But there were some terrible things where Cassian wouldn't be able to come back. Would withdraw so far inside himself that it didn't matter if anyone else was there or not. Didn't matter how much he trusted Kay, pretty much alone in the rest of the universe, to have no duplicity, to be purely honest and accurate, not even compromising for niceties. Even Kay couldn't reach him. Cassian hated doing it to Kay. He knew how difficult it was, to be conscripted to help someone who wouldn't be helped. But Kay had learned when not to speak, when not to try and make Cassian speak. Not because it wouldn't be good. Because it simply wouldn't work.

Cassian's fists and face were pushed into the bulkhead and he tried to come back. Tried to get to the dimension where Kay was. He could see it abstractly: he would sit beside Kay; talk it through; run scenarios; draft the report; ask Kay to hit him (Kay wouldn't), push him (also probably not), hold him down (that one Kay had had to do many times) until the moment passed. Press his forehead against Kay's metal and let it cool his mind until it slowed. Otherwise try to do something constructive with this utter fourfold failure. With Kaytoo, in the cockpit, as so many times before. Whether the mission had succeeded or failed, sometimes what he needed to keep going was the two of them.

But it's not just the two of them. Cassian can't hit things or scream. He can't even speak. Not without the ones below hearing. Even if they didn't hear, he knew they were there. He can't retreat into Kay's sanctuary because they aren't alone.

A bulkhead between them, Jyn's eyes are boring into him even now.

He strikes his face to the wall one more time.

_Stop it. Stop._

On so many levels. It had gone so wrong. And all for nothing.

And just when it seemed her story was being confirmed…

But just as he was too involved right now to read Jyn's expression, he'd been too involved to read whatever drama had been playing out on that platform.

_Compromised_

He knew what it looked like. So clearly and obviously, so inescapably: what he wanted it to look like. Confirmation of Jyn's account. Justification for what he'd done—hadn't done. The way to both serve the Rebellion and…

…and… serve… her.

He couldn't trust his interpretations. It was moot now anyway. And they were left with…

…worse than nothing. Because he knew exactly what happened next. How it would play out. After what he'd seen… what he'd done… and worse because now there were also the others. The three Jedhans whose world had buckled and broke. Bodhi who'd given up everything on faith and been betrayed—by Saw, by Cassian, and soon, inevitably, by the Council. Baze whose faith seemed to have shattered years ago and they kept confirming his resignation. Chirrut who would find a way and not be terribly concerned whether he survived it. And Jyn—

_"He's gone," he'd said to her over Galen's body._

_"He's gone," Khryw'd said to Cassian over Jeron's._

Cassian pushed himself from the bulkhead and sat heavily beside Kaytoo.

He didn't take his controls.

He shut his eyes. Felt the rain still on his face, like the tears he'd lost the ability to shed. Listened to—mostly imagined—Kay working the board.

_You can't talk your way around this._  
_You lied to me._  
_I'll bet you have._  
_You might as well be a stormtrooper.  
_

___(Would Mon Mothma still disagree?)__ _

____

The worse shame, what he'd said to her: _You don't know what you're talking about._

He didn't plan out what he would report. He didn't help fly. He just worked to keep himself beside Kay, keep himself sitting in that cockpit, not fall through the atoms of the ship into void. Made himself breathe.

_I don't have to._

 

\--

 

Cassian delivered his report, stood aside, listened to Jyn deliver hers. And he read the room. Had confirmed what he'd already known. That the Council would vote against further action. Propose disbandment and surrender.

So he left. Straight to recruit what would become the Rogue One force. Before the meeting was over, so that he wouldn't have to stand there and hear the Council say the words. And so that anyone who could give him new orders would still be in that meeting until after they'd missed the chance.

But before he slipped out, for just an instant, he caught Draven's eye.

Draven had read the room too and made the same assessment. He had also, as few left in the galaxy could, read _Cassian._

They knew, as they had with Spectrum, what they would both have to do if they got to speak. Draven would give Cassian orders he didn't want to give. Cassian…  
…  
…and though Draven would never hear the unofficial version of what happened on Eadu, they still both knew…  
…  
…Cassian would disobey.

Neither of them wanted to make him do that, either.

So Draven had met his eye and let him go.

Not that there was any communication beyond a glance. No expression. Not a nod.

After a decade-long mentorship, colleagueship, perhaps friendship, with Draven who was a large percentage of the only family Cassian had left—had ever had at all:

That was the sum of their goodbye.

 

\--

 

Jyn yelled his name

lights were firing behind his eyes something drained away inside axis tilting gravity failing  
_it hurts, Kay, I don't know where, all of it, help me get to_  
a gaping pit something snapped falling insides falling  
_if you're caught by a black hole you aren't crushed, you're spun out: feet falling faster than your head ever will, so you're pulled apart thinner and thinner to strings and shreds, telescoping, unspooling, narrowing until you're a line of red in the black_

Cassian woke retching.

Focus. Assess.  
Points of pain. Blaster wound in muscle to bone, missed heart. Trauma from transparisteel beam impact as he fell: bruised spine, snapped ribs. More from final landing: wrenched limbs, hairline fractures.  
Also nausea. Hit his head on something at the bottom or the way down: dizzy, no doubt concussed.  
But worst feeling: the gravity well inside… something falling away… it hurt when he moved but it pulled and sunk when he didn't…

_Kay…_

Things had broken and caused other things to rupture.  
The shot hadn't killed him. The fall had. He just hadn't died yet.

_Kay._

He could yet be patched up. If Kay could get him. Fulfill his original function. Partner to aid in extraction. For just such a situation. Where trying to get himself to med aid would complicate and compound… that was what a partner… that was what Kay…  
Last time he'd hurt so bad, it had been Kay…

_**Kay!** —where…?_

That terrifyingly humanlike croak: _**Climb**_

And the worse calmness: 

_(The sum of their…)_

_**Goodbye** _

Kay wouldn't be coming.

Cassian opened his eyes, looking around for whoever was keening so painfully nearby.

He saw the grid. The tower. The rails. Realized the awful sounds were his own breathing.  
Cracked rib hadn't punctured his lung but might be pressing on it. Okay. Shhh. Don't try to drag breath in. Slow down.  
Light still misfired behind his eyes. But it was afterimage and neuron confusion. No one was shooting at him now.  
…No one was here at all.  
Jyn had screamed his name

Squinting his eyes nearly closed, trying to focus, to see only one of everything and get it all to stop spinning… Cassian tried to roll onto his side.  
Oh Yavá  
He could not be the last.  
He would not be the last.  
One arm was fractured. He reached with the other. The comm was gone, but his hand met his blaster. His fingers curled around the grip.  
_Man in white shot me._  
Was shooting at Jyn  
Cassian looked up.

_Climb_

_Stay still,_ disagreed the voice in his mind. …Which sounded at the moment like…

(Mothma? Maddel?

…Xilo.) _If you stay still you'll avoid compounding the damage. If extracted you could be repaired—_

 _I won't be extracted,_ he responded as if to reassure. _No one is coming. We were never getting out. I can lie here and flood my organs with blood or_  
see it done  
See if Jyn is somewhere up there and still possibly needs me

_Climb._

He shut his eyes. Slowed his breath. Took several long, fierce, painful inhalations through his nose, felt the air in his skull and his throat and his eyes and his working lung and the straining one _(if it ruptures will have to find something sharp to cut myself and keep misplaced air from filling chest cavity and compress the other one)_  
willed the sensation of _alive, still alive_ through everything, even where it hurt, welcome the hurt, use it, _see how bad it can get because it's never stopped me_

With a groan, not trying to favor leg or arm or side or anything, Cassian grabbed the blaster in his purpling hand, grasped the rail with his spared one, and yanked himself to his feet.  
The pain was blinding.  
Fine.  
There was something bizarrely liberating in abandoning self-preservation. Fascinating in feeling and hearing how things could move as they were not intended. Let them collapse. Sustainability wouldn't be an issue for long.  
_Lack of backup  
No just chances spent_

Climb. Hand over hand, foot over foot, he started to drag himself up the core. Knowing with every move, he made the fractures, the ruptures, worse. Made them irrevocable.

No one was coming.

_…Bye, Kay. I'm sorry. I loved you. I'm sorry._

It didn't matter. They couldn't have helped him now.  
But maybe he could still help Jyn.

That was all he wanted to do. With literally the rest of his life.

Help Jyn.

He kept adrenaline from activating full throttle until near the top. He needed it then with the snapping trap door. He envisioned how Jyn must have gotten through. With her swift grace that could only seem effortless after a lifetime's grueling work. Cassian didn't know if he'd be able to go as quickly. But he had to. Not because being crushed or cut in half would be so much worse than his current state. But because that would prevent him from finding out. If Jyn was up there. If she'd done it. If not, if he could help her do it. Even losing a leg would cause him to bleed out too quickly. That couldn't happen.

It was impossible… so he didn't waste time or energy trying to figure out how. He just karking did it.

As he rolled, half blacking out, not remembering how he'd managed and wondering for a vertiginous moment if it hadn't been the Force in the form of Baze—Narede—Khryw—hurling him straight up; and Chirrut—Bodhi—Lyyxo—d'Djiera—Linat—catching him and pulling him through…

Cassian's head lolled and he saw them.

Jyn in grey. The man in white.

Jyn's ancient enemy. Trying to have the last word. Trying to take the last shot. Stopping Jyn from finishing it herself.

Cassian took another in his last reserve of breaths.

Found the strength, not now (not ever again) to be fast, but to be silent. Dragged himself, in an approximate army crawl, to the core of the tower. Pulled himself upright against it. Propped his fractured arm up against the tower core, his good hand too to steady the blaster, force his eyes to focus down its sights, take aim.

"You on the other hand," the man in white was barking at Jyn, "die with the Rebellion."

Cassian shot first.

 

\--

 

Jyn moved from the completed transmitter to Cassian's side. They stared at each other. Started to smile.

Jyn's eyes turned to the man in white. Her own childhood giant, toylike in collapse.

She lurched convulsively back towards him.

Cassian wouldn't release her arm. Pulled her back by it against him.

"Leave it," he managed. "Leave it. That's it."

It wasn't just that, if she had any chance of escape, it wouldn't wait.

It was also that, one way or another, he knew he was about to die.

It was selfish of him. He knew what he was asking her to, simply, give up. He knew it wasn't his place to save her from the same decisions he'd made.

But for however many moments he had left, he was done spending a single one more of them on war.

_Stay with me please._

"Let's go."

 

\--

 

They've stopped hurting.

The cracked ribs. The pressured lung. The concussion. Dislocations, fractures, ruptures. Inflicted by the fall, made irrevocable by his climb. The sinking, pulling sensation—gravity well—of internal bleeding. The blaster burn—least consequential except as the cause.

It would be a bad sign, the departure of pain. If duration could have been a concern anyway. If he'd cared about anything now. Anything except giving the last of his focus, his senses, himself, to Jyn Erso

who'd pushed herself against him, propping him upright, and held him close

her small celestial body a galaxy of wiretaut strings

her presence outshining the oncoming wave

giving him one more purpose, even now—after already giving her life to all of them

transmuting his existence to need him, one more time.

Needing him to hold her, too.

He closed his eyes into her hair. He didn't want to see the shockwave. Not out of fear. Out of utter lack of interest.

All he wanted to feel, to breathe, to know… in this far better death than he could ever have hoped for or accomplished on his own…

And in the space of a second, envisioned a lifetime.

_could she ever have kissed him or he, her_  
_didn't matter_  
_as with all of this_  
_like how they'd never really clarified who was in command_  
_which with this many variables should have become a problem for **someone**_  
_but never did_  
_because it would be mutual_ _they were so seamlessly in accord_  
_one commander in two people_  
_following her finally allowing him to step on the path he'd never been able to for himself_  
_imagine they_  
_moved against one another_  
_moved inside each other_  
_like molecules sifting together_  
_they pulled one another to release and relief, no longer self-severed but wanted, welcomed_  
_the energy transforming between them_  
_somewhere with trees, trading weapons for tools, hands filled with one another's and someone smaller's_  
_sitting at last on a beach like this but it's only sunset that swallows them at last, heads touching, white and grey, relaxing into the sea and night and sand and each other's arms_

 

With gratitude and a sense of utter peace for the first time in his life, he filled his senses with her.

 

\--

 

Engulfed in white.

Not alone.


End file.
